Fatal Flaw
by tsummi
Summary: It all made sense, and Sven felt awful for never noticing before. Maybe he was destined to be a bad partner. Maybe not noticing things until they were too late and too far gone was his fatal flaw. (Mentions of suicide and depression within, rated M due to such, oneshot.)


Depressed is not a word one would use when referring to Train Heartnet.

Friendly, eager, reckless, deep, exciting, and best friend were all acceptable answers, in Sven's opinion. They were all answers that would have made sense to anyone who saw the male in a passing fashion, or anyone that did not spend a considerable amount of time with him, and answers that made sense to even most of the people around him if they did not have the time to truly think about how he acted and reacted.

Despite this fact, an idea that had been suggested to him by Eve one morning over a measly breakfast as she read a definition out of a book and drew comparisons to the male was slowly beginning to make more and more sense to the grass-haired sweeper.

Depression. How could he not have seen it before?

The younger male would sleep all day, and had periods where he would not sleep at all for seemingly no reason, merely resting on the roof instead. Train would pass these periods off as to moments where he was thinking, but Eve had told Sven that people with depression sometimes would spend times mourning about past things and merely staring off into space due to the lethargy that came on. His only excitement seemed to come from adrenaline, and when that wasn't happening, he complained about everything else as if he hadn't almost just died a day ago. He had no fear of death and had no sense or care for his recklessness, though his care for others was very high. This was supposed to be normal, but the more he paid attention, the more the older male grew concerned.

It all made sense, and Sven felt awful for never noticing before. Maybe he was destined to be a bad partner. Maybe not noticing things until they were too late and too far gone was his fatal flaw.

After a few weeks of stewing over the information, he finally built up the courage for confrontation. He had grabbed Train's shoulder and dragged him aside under an overhanging roof of a shop called "Dina's Cakes" and unloaded the situation on him. At first, Train had laughed and brushed it off. After a while, however, he began to crack. This was the Serious Train. The Train that rarely presented himself anymore after living his entire life as that Train. With that appearance came the confession.

"I was diagnosed when I was twenty. Never saw it coming. I've been on and off medication for a while. I don't want anyone to know because I'm trying to make it better. I'll be okay. Just let me handle it. Thank you, Sven," had come his partner's soft and smooth voice. With this, Sven was comforted and continued on his merry way. Train was handling it. Things would be alright. This became the sweeper's mantra for a few more months, even as things seemed to be getting darker and darker. Even as things were crumbling and Train began to sleep more and hide more and want even more privacy and time away from the group, Sven was busy convincing himself in his mind that everything was okay. Everything was okay.

Everything was okay.

Train was handling it.

Okay.

Okay...

...

Not okay.

Finally, Sven had to crack. Had to break himself and do it. Help his friend. He loved Train and he needed to help and he couldn't bear not stepping in anymore. So he grew more confidence and told Rinslet and Eve. They would surely help, because where he failed in emotional aid, they were successful and could make leaps and bounds, and Train certainly needed it. Even with Train's words echoing in his head (he was okay, he was handling it, but god damn it one person cannot handle everything on his own), he knew he was doing the right thing. Eve had read somewhere when something went wrong with a friend or a loved one, you held an intervention and told them the situation and that would help them. They would get past their addiction. Well... Train didn't have an addiction that Sven really knew of beyond practicing gluttony on a regular basis, but it could convert, right?

So naturally, that's what they did. They waited to spring it on him until they were at one of their own safe houses, and they had sent him out on a useless task they knew he would fail at. No problem. He'd come back just fine. Train seemed exhausted and lost at first when he came back, almost frustrated, but after a while, he grew warmer to the idea of his friends helping him and seemed to be growing happier and happier by the moment. As they went on, Train was almost blossoming with joy, and Sven knew in his heart that he had done something right.

That night, after the party had died down and everyone had headed to bed save for the two men, Train had embraced him tightly and patted at his back with a few tears in his eyes.

"Thank you," he had began softy, "for doing this. You proved just how much I can trust and rely on you." Train went to bed after that, and despite the fact that Sven was glowing with the joy and knowledge he had done something right, a pit of fear gnawed at his stomach. He brushed it off and fought it back with a cigarette, and went to bed. Maybe the next morning Sven could break the bank and make a little more debt and they could have a hell of a feast. Train's mental health meant more to him than the stupid debts anymore that they shared together. He needed help and a break and Sven was sure as hell going to do that. That's what friends were for. Sven had known him for so long, and he was so, so strong. He was proud of Train. Train was such a great man, and despite his mistakes and his demons from the past, he was capable of pressing past them and he knew that Train would make it past this as well. This is what best friends could truly do together. They were a team. Now and forever, until the end.

Sven was horrified when he found Train dead the next morning, hung by a scarf Eve had knitted him last fall. No note, no goodbye. Train was too ashamed to do that, and the sweeper knew that even without needing the note.

A fatal flaw, indeed. Some partner.


End file.
